


The Scientists' Guide to the Galaxy

by glennjaminhow



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Canon Disabled Character, Caretaking, Crying, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Newton Geiszler Recovery Arc, Panic Attacks, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), Science Boyfriends, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 05:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15284724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: "Newton does not mean anything to these people; he’s simply a liability, one they can hold responsible for deaths and destruction and domineering chaos. But he is not any of those descriptors. Newton’s sweet. He loves terribly hard, with every single fiber, muscle, ligament in his body."





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance if this is crap. I will gladly add more if people are interested!

Newton seizes for 27 minutes once Alice is killed. 

Hermann holds his hand the whole time. 

That is precisely 1,620 seconds of mind-altering, shattering, debilitating, horrendously terrifying of jerking and twitching. Newton was conscious for nearly 11 minutes before Lieutenant Gronetti and Lewin Shao electrocuted Alice to death; whatever ‘death’ means to a virtually incomprehensible and imperceptible Kaiju brain. He hadn’t quite been himself, but he was alert, orientated even. It may have very well just been the Precursors talking, but Newton’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, and he was relentlessly tapping his fingers on the metal arm of the chair he’s been strapped into for literally months. Those are classic Newton behaviors. 

Alice is dead.

Newton is still bound at the hands and ankles, gagged of sorts as to not swallow or bite his own tongue while seizing. He’s very specifically unconscious, head dangling from an over exhausting ordeal. Oh, how Hermann longs to see Newton’s glassy, unfocused eyes again. How he longs to hear Newton’s voice, perfectly pitched, poke fun at him or sing that God-awful ‘Cold as Ice’ tune, the one that Hermann finds annoying but remarkably Newton. 

He misses everything about the dreadful, messy, loud biologist. 

“Why is he not awake?” Hermann asks Dr. McElhatton, who shines a penlight into Newton’s eyes; they’re unresponsive. “Why is he not awake?” 

Realistically, he is well aware of the multitudes of reasons Newton is not conscious. For one, he has been treated awfully for the last seven and a half months, tied up and not receiving the nutrients or fluids he needs to stay hydrated and nourished. Secondly, there is an alarming absence of medicine; Hermann would have at least expected an IV, but he gets thrown out of Newton’s cell literally at least four times a day for ‘asking too many questions;’ when he questioned the IV earlier, Dr. McElhatton told him to ‘can it.’ Finally, Newton just seized for the last half hour. He’s exhausted. But Hermann wants to see those eyes. He wants to see that Newton is indeed still Newton, that he functions on the same level as Hermann, that he’s still the charming, witty, tattooed man he’s fallen so madly, deeply in love with.

“Give it time, Gottlieb. He’s got a steady pulse. He’s breathing on his own. Can’t really expect much more than that from a probable potato.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermann spits out, glaring at this preposterous man. “What in God’s name does that mean?”

Dr. McElhatton sighs; it rattles Hermann to his core. “He’s surely long gone, right? I figure the actual Geiszler’s been dead for at least five years, give or take.”

Who is this man? Who gave him the right to string such horrible words together? 

“Look, we already knew this was likely the scenario,” Dr. McEl-Dick says. 

(That one is for you, Newton.)

Hermann seethes, his hand beginning to mist not so gracefully whilst intertwined with Newton’s prone, icy fingers. “No. In fact, we did not. Newton is going to wake up.”

“Whatever you say, doc.”

Dr. McElhatton exits the cell without another word. 

“You’re alright, liebling. You’re quite alright,” Hermann whispers.

He knows he’s justifying it aloud more for himself than for Newton.

~

Newton has been unconscious for 24 hours.

Hermann holds his hand this entire time.

That is precisely 86,400 seconds of dark, never-ending blackness swallowing Newton, his Newton, whole. Newton hasn’t been alert in the slightest since 6:49 AM on the 1st of January this year. Yes, a day isn’t forever, but Hermann’s been without Newton for over ten years now. During the moments when Newton was able to break free from the Precursors hold, he was very much Newton. He was the Newton who smiled constantly. He was the Newton who laughed at just about anything and everything. He was the Newton Hermann loved so so much.

More often than not, Hermann’s spoken to the Precursors the last seven and a half months. Now, though, he supposes he’s been exchanging emails here and there for the previous ten years with them, too. It was rare for Newton to come to light; Hermann knew it took so much strength to fight his way forward in his own mind. He was there, trapped, suffocated, lonely. He has always been there, and Hermann thinks that may be what hurts him most of all.

There is now an IV administering saline into his dehydrated body. It took the bloody nurse five – yes, five – sticks with a needle before she finally got it right. Newton does not mean anything to these people; he’s simply a liability, the one they can hold responsible for deaths and destruction and domineering chaos. But he is not any of those descriptors. Newton’s sweet. He massages Hermann’s bum leg, even if it is not particularly aching at that moment. He cooks marvelously scrumptious breakfasts and serves them to Hermann in bed. He loves terribly hard, with every single fiber, muscle, ligament in his body. 

“Would you like me to read to you, darling boy?” Hermann asks softly. “I brought ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’ today.”

Of course, Newton does not respond, but Hermann pleads with God that one day, preferably soon, he might. 

As Hermann pulls the worn novel that actually belongs to Newton out of his satchel, he is suddenly caught off guard by a memory that bubbles up approximately every two months or so. One cold day in February of 2027, Hermann read this very book to an overworked, sniffling, feverish Newton. They’d been in the lab on the couch, Newton’s head pillowed on Hermann’s lap, careful of his leg as always. Newton had been eerily quiet that morning and, ultimately, drifted off curled up under his desk and on top of numerous papers and textbooks. Hermann tugged him to the couch with all his strength, covered him from chin to toes with a thick quilt, and slid his fingers through Newton’s damp hair as he read softly. 

He remembers trying to stop several times, aware that Newton had fallen asleep, but Newton nuzzled the back of his head against Hermann’s stomach with a quiet whine on each occasion, so Hermann felt it pointless to stop.

“Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small, unregarded yellow sun,” Hermann reads, voice wavering as he looks over the tops of his glasses at Newton, head still tilted toward his chest and still bound to a Godforsaken chair. He clears his throat. “Orbiting this at a distance of roughly 92 million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.” 

Newton used to wear digital watches, specifically ones with cartoon Kaiju or this ridiculous American television program called ‘Adventure Time’ characters imprinted on them. Newton was wearing a watch that cold day in February 2027. Hermann remembers undressing the ill biologist later that afternoon and putting his stubborn arse to bed; he remembers taking off Newton’s watch, laying it beside Newton’s glasses on the bedside table. 

Hermann swallows thickly. His fingers shake. “This planet has – or rather had – a problem, which was this: most of the people on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of them were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn’t the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy. And so the problem remained; lots of the people were mean, and most of them were miserable, even the ones with digital wa–”

It’s tiny, almost insignificant when it happens.

Newton squeezes his hand. It’s weak. It’s cold. It’s hardly recognizable as Newton’s hand in his own. 

But it’s Newton nonetheless.

Hermann smiles.

~

Newton is moved into an isolated room in the medical bay three days later. 

Hermann holds his hand the whole time.

Newton is still bound at his hands and ankles when his body temperature rises from 36.3 repeating degrees, a bit on the low side, to a staggering 39.5 degrees. Tears stream down his flushed, freckled cheeks. He has yet to open his eyes. 

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Hermann says to Dr. McElhatton, who he supposes is only here because Newton spiked an alarming fever. “There is no reason for him to be tied up like this!”

Dr. McEl-Dick rolls his eyes. “Not this again, Gottlieb. We don’t know what kind of threat Geiszler is or if those things even left his building.”

“But you think that this is helping him recover? You profoundly stupid, irritating, man. I will have you know that –”

“One more word and you’re outta here, doc,” McElhatton says. 

“He is in a secured area. There are six guards looking in on us right as we speak. A nurse rotates through this very room precisely every 15 minutes. Newton’s asleep, maybe even sedated now that you’ve drugged him up with chloriazepoxide or diazepam or estazolam or whatever you’re shoving in his IV, none of which, by the way, will lower his fever.” 

“What did I say about ‘one more word?’ That was like 30 words,” McElhatton exasperates. “I can’t handle much more of your shit, Gottlieb. I’ll remove the ankle restraints. Hands stay until he actually regains consciousness... or not. He may be a potato.”

Hermann rolls his eyes. “He is not, nor will he ever be, a potato, you git.”

“I’m doing you a favor here. Just shut up, okay?”

Dr. McElhatton unfastens the ankle restraints, tossing them aside and leaving Hermann and Newton alone again. He walks away mumbling under his breath, and Hermann smiles a miniscule amount. Newton would be proud of him. 

Hermann’s slight victory is short-lived. Right above Newton’s ankles are raw, red, and have developed sores after being restrained for the better part of eight solid months. Hermann immediately hobbles over to the sink, wetting a washcloth with alcohol and beginning to clean the wounds. He winces as he sanitizes a particularly poor looking sore below the right ankle bone. It is not Newton that is the ‘monster.’ These people are the monsters. 

He takes his time and makes sure apply antibiotic ointment before wrapping Newton’s ankles with gauze. He grabs another cloth, dowses it with ice cold water, and places it on Newton’s burning forehead. He’s done this more times than he can count or recognize. It’s sad, really. 

Hermann sits in the recliner Jake and Nate, bless their souls, moved into the hospital room for him while Newton recuperates. He situates his bum leg with memory foam pillows before leaning back and exhaling deeply. He clicks off the bedside table lamp and reaches for Newton’s hand once more, praying with every ounce of strength he has that Newton will squeeze back, just like he did three days ago.

He doesn’t, and it rips Hermann’s heart from his chest. 

~

Newton has another seizure a week after he’s moved to the medical bay on the 12th of January at precisely 3:34 PM. It lasts for five minutes and nine seconds.

Hermann holds his hand this entire time. 

309 seconds pass by in a blur. Hermann tries not to count, but he simply cannot help himself. 

He prays the seizure did not cause any damage (or, perhaps, any further damage). 

There are only seven days until Newton’s birthday, and Hermann is so sick to his stomach that he can hardly manage his afternoon tea. Newton’s missed so many birthdays, undoubtedly ignored by the Precursors and their blasted agenda. He’s been unresponsive for just over 12 days, and Hermann’s beginning to wonder what else he’ll miss. Will Newton be awake for Valentine’s Day on one month’s time? Will Newton be alert for Hermann’s birthday in June? 

Will Newton even be alive in a few days? 

Hermann thanks the nurse once she administers more medications and saline into Newton’s IV. He fluffs the pillows behind Newton’s head before hoisting himself on the mattress, Newton’s tattered, highlighted copy of ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’ tucked beneath his arm. They are not quite far along in the story, but it is simply because Hermann gets lost when he stares at the words. He hears his own voice echo through his mind like a siren, beckoning him back to that February day in 2027. Newton, while under the weather, was so very much alive back then. Newton, even with a cough so horrendously violent that he lost his voice for upwards of a week, was squirming and fidgeting and ‘shout-writing’ obscenities on one of Hermann’s miniature chalkboards with a shaky hand. Newton was Newton.

“My sweet boy, I do miss you so,” Hermann murmurs in Newton’s ear, kissing his warm cheek softly. He clears his throat and opens the book where it was marked yesterday, hoping this, perhaps, will comfort Newton just a little bit. “Beneath it lay uncovered a huge starship, one hundred and fifty metres long, shaped like a sleek running shoe, perfectly white and mindboggingly beautiful. At the heart of it, unseen, lay a small gold box which carried within it the most brain-wretching device ever conceived, a device which made this starship unique in the history of the galaxy, a device after which the ship had been named – The Heart of Gold.”

It’s so small, so tiny, almost insignificant when it happens again.

Newton squeezes his hand. It’s weak. It’s cold. It’s still hardly recognizable as Newton’s hand in his own. 

But it’s Newton nonetheless.

Newton’s eyes crack open slightly. He looks positively magnificent, even in this state.

“Wow,” Newton whispers.

Hermann smiles. 

“Wow, indeed.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I just couldn't leave this alone. Thank you for the comments and kudos! If anyone's interested in more, let me know!

Something...

Something isn’t right this isn’t right holy shit what the hell everything’s blurry. Time’s weird jelly like he’s tucked away in bed at Uncle Illia’s after a hard day of experimenting and playing the grand piano and learning the trumpet and getting screamed at by his father for being too much doing too much not being who he wants Newt to be. He wants Hermann but knows that’s impossible, that he killed Hermann with his bare hands.

He wrapped his arms around Hermann’s throat squeezed tightly Hermann’s thumb rubbed his knuckles comfortingly, but Newt didn’t care, or rather they didn’t care, and it doesn’t make sense. He’s a rational man with rational thoughts and a flawlessly logical elimination process, but none of that matters now that Hermann’s dead. Newt swears he can still hear his voice calling to him while he sleeps, but the elimination process states that Hermann was choked out by Newt’s fucking hands and fucking mind, and holy shit why is it so cold.

Where is he? Why is he still here? Where’s Hermann buried? He should really go see him. Morbid. He’s morbid and needlessly cruel, but everything feels so fuzzy and freezing, like it’s Halloween night, and he’s eight years old, and he’s not going Trick or Treating because his dad found a homemade chemistry set tucked under his bed. He was very lonely that night. He’s very lonely right now hence Hermann. Hermann knows how to make anything and everything better. It’s like his gift or something, and Newt just needs to swallow it up right now.

He isn’t here he’s tucked away in that far corner – he thinks it’s the near right – of his brain, where they keep him stashed, stored from Hermann. But Hermann’s dead, and he’s dead, and this isn’t really happening because it can’t happen, but he feels these fingers on his upper arm, and he feels the sensation on his upper arm, and he can’t explain it. When they’re here, he isn’t in control. He doesn’t feel anything. He sees. That’s it. He can see if someone’s around him or trying to get too close or staring at him oddly or tapping him on the shoulder, but those sensations don’t belong to them. They’re theirs. It’s just the way it.

Except it isn’t because Newt swears to God he actually fucking feels something.

It’s dark black bleak scary a tunnel with no light at the end. He walks down this path carved out by skulls and bones of the people he’s – they’ve – no, he’s – killed, and it’s fucking weird, man. Newt almost feels like he’s getting somewhere – going somewhere – but it can’t be true because it isn’t true because this isn’t real. They’ve finally killed him, and he’s just drifting in the vast space vacuum that is his own mind.

That’s all this is that’s what this is that’s all it will ever be.

Newt hears rustling and feels more touches. His left side is warm and protected, and he could nuzzle into the heat and get lost forever. He’s already lost he’s already gone it’s comforting in some way to think that all of this is finally over because Hermann’s dead, and Newt’s dead, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll get released from this prison and go to Hell. It’s where he’s undoubtedly heading anyway he just hopes Hermann is in Heaven because that man is awesome sauce and incredible and way too good for this shitty place anyway.

There’s yellow in the distance as Newt stumbles over memories like waves pounding the shore relentlessly. He’s six in eighth grade with a broken arm glasses cracked lenses smushed beneath huge feet he’s thirteen in undergrad kisses a girl for the first time but doesn’t really like it he’s twenty-one meets Hermann after writing to him for years it’s a disaster like all things Newt does, but Hermann gives him a kiss on the cheek everything is right in the world. That memory alone almost makes Newt bypass his father screaming obscenities at him into the late night air out in the middle of nowhere where no one could hear almost makes Newt forget that his dad hated his guts wanted him to die wished he were dead is probably happy that he’s gone.

And there’s noise. He never heard them talking before because they were simply speaking through him he ignored a lot of it at first and then just never listened really again until he strangled Hermann to death then he started paying attention to it all. Noise fills his ears up up up there’s no way any of this is real because the one person who even matters to him is buried six feet under he hates clichés like that but it’s true it hurts it stings it makes him welcome death.

Only there are more noises more touches like when Hermann used to kiss him awake or rub the small of his back whispering and then eventually yelling at him to get outta bed to start the day to brave the world with a smile on his face. Hermann is his only reason to smile. Hermann is everything which is why Newt comes closer to the light and noise until there are blurry images everywhere shapes he doesn’t recognize a place that smells too clean too pristine so Hermann-y.

“My sweet boy, I do miss you so.” He hears this actually fucking hears this tries not to explode all over the place. “Beneath it lay uncovered a huge starship, one hundred and fifty metres long, shaped like a sleek running shoe, perfectly white and mindboggingly beautiful. At the heart of it, unseen, lay a small gold box which carried within it the most brain-wretching device ever conceived, a device which made this starship unique in the history of the galaxy, a device after which the ship had been named – The Heart of Gold.”

The voice is unmistakingly Hermann so so Hermann reading from one of Newt’s favorites ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’ it inspired Newt’s love of space at the tender age of one he told Hermann this Hermann smiled, and, holy fucking shit balls, is this happening? He’s hallucinating, right? When the body dies it’s possible to hallucinate, to hear to see to imagine to picture things that aren’t even there the brain is so cruel.

But there’s this feeling in his palm it feels like home it feels like everything he misses.

Newt cracks open his eyes that are weighted down with cinder blocks heavy with remorse and regret and guilt.

“Wow,” Newt whispers even though he doesn’t know if this is real because that’s the next line of the book he memorized it it’s ‘wow.’

He can’t see much it’s pretty blurry and unrecognizable it’s also familiar. The warmth spreading through his left side is still there still lighting him up like a Christmas tree he misses Christmas he misses Hermann’s ridiculous light up sweaters and gingerbread cookies and hot cocoa with extra marshmallows and extra whipped cream and extra Hermann.

“Wow, indeed.”

Newt blinks tries to make sense of this new world is he in a different galaxy if so Tendo owes him fifty bucks. “Herms?”

This better not be a lie the feeling of Hermann’s soft sweet lips on his absolutely cannot be a lie because that’s fucking cruel. It’s fucking cruel but awesome sauce all at the same time because even if he’s dead too he can feel Hermann’s presence. Oh shit oh wait not good this may not be good at all why does everything come to an end before Newt can even actually feel it?

Hermann’s in Hell Hermann’s in Hell with him they’re dead they’re both dead they’ll spend forever roasting in an open fire of flesh and blood and skeletons.

“Shh... Shh... It’s alright, darling. It’s quite alright...”

Newt breathes breathes breathes breathes until there’s pressure in his lungs like his heart may just be working again. “R-Real?” he chokes out because it’s all he can say all he can ask all he will wonder until the end of time.

“I’m right here, Newton. I’m right here, my love. I’m right here. I’m right here.”

Hermann whispers sweet nothings until Newt’s eyes droop closed again. He’s enveloped by Hermann’s warmth and vanilla mixed with chalk dust scent.

It’s so achingly perfect.

~

His head doesn’t quite feel all there still, but Hermann’s told him so many times, more times than Newt can count, that he’s actually alive. He sorta feels alive now that there’s that familiar flare of fast acting anti-anxiety medication pumping through his veins. Hermann is alive too. Newt didn’t choke him to death. Newt’s alive and breathing, and Hermann’s to his left. Newt can’t really see that well and doesn’t understand why, but it doesn’t matter.

The Precursors are gone. Alice is dead. The apocalypse has, once again, been canceled.

Relief washes through Newt like a storm, and his initial worries drift away. He’ll take the few minutes of peace when he can get it. He’s scattered and disoriented, and he doesn’t even know what he remembers and what he doesn’t, but, shit, it feels good to be on earth again. He feels a blanket covering his bare feet and wiggles his toes. He feels the tug of his IV whenever he moves his right arm. He feels Hermann’s hand in his, and his fingers are just as cold as he remembers.

There’s no niggling sensation. No whispers. No more putting baby in the corner. Newt is as clear headed as he’s ever been, he thinks, minus the twinges of shrapnel colliding forcefully into his left eye.

“Are you alright, Newton?” Hermann asks softly, and Newt missed his voice so much. “Are you in pain?”

Newt doesn’t answer. He hears Hermann. He just... doesn’t feel like talking, he guesses. Which is super strange because he hasn’t talked, not really at least, in however long he’s been trapped back there. His head hurts. His tongue is lead. Screams, screams that aren’t even there, echo through his skull. It isn’t the Precursors. They don’t scream like this. It isn’t him.

He killed them. He killed so many people.

It’s their screams bouncing off his brain. Their screams. Their blood.

A little girl’s red shoe missing on stained concrete.

A new father’s briefcase from a meeting from which he’ll never return.

A mom’s burned picture of her two sons.

He killed them he killed them he killed them he killed them.

Newt clutches his head come out he doesn’t want this he doesn’t want to know but at the same time he does he should feel pain for this he should suffer for this. The world is cruel and unjust and doesn’t make sense, but it makes sense to pay for mistakes. He doesn’t wanna live in a world like this a world he was so intent on destroying. He let them in he let them control him he let them put an entire civilization of human beings at risk.

“Liebling, liebling, sweetheart,” Hermann whispers Newt cries. There’s rustling and movement he doesn’t care he doesn’t want this something’s jabbed in his thigh.

Sleep killed them sleep killed everyone eyes closed.

No going back.

~

_He has to pee._

_They just saved the entire Goddamn planet, and all Newt can think about – all he can feel – is the intense stabbing sensation overriding his normally calm bladder._

_“Sandra, so help me god, if you stop me one more time, I will smash your face into a jelly!” Newt exclaims, gesturing wildly because it’s 2:15 AM, he’s about to piss his pants, and, um, hello, has he mentioned that the apocalypse is canceled?_

_“But Dr. Geiszler –”_

_“A jelly, Sandra!” Newt shouts._

_“Um, I think she may be right, mate,” Tendo points out. Newt contemplates whipping it out and peeing right fucking here if people don’t leave him alone. “You should go to medical. You don’t look so hot.”_

_Newt rubs his eyes, trying to avoid his glasses, even though it doesn’t really matter because they’re gross, and the right lens is cracked, and, holy mother fucking shit, he pushes past Tendo and that bitch Sandra. He sprints to his room, hands covering his crotch because this is nearing disaster level here, folks._

_He flings the door open and immediately wades past the piles of stuff littering the floor, exhaling when he locks the bathroom behind him. Newt unzips his ripped, ruined, previously awesome skinny jeans and pisses. He pisses for so long and so hard he swears he nearly orgasms._

_Sanitariness be damned, he leans his forehead against the wall, hovering over the toilet and breathing deeply. He just needs to chill for a sec; yeah, that’s it. The ache in his skull and the sharp pain in his hip will go away if he slows down for a minute._

_His knees shake. His feet feel too swollen in his boots. He can’t make his hands stop trembling._

_Okay. Bed. Bed now._

_But, fuck, that takes so much effort. Instead of collapsing in his safe haven of Godzilla sheets, thick memory foam mattress, and a Scissure body pillow, Newt zips his pants with quivering fingers before slumping to the floor, propped up against the wall. He draws his knees to his chest, hiding his face and rubbing the back of his neck._

_He saved the world with his friends and colleagues. He should be celebrating – or maybe mourning? – with everyone, drinking and retelling tales of amazingness, of heroism, of bravery. There are definitely things he’d much rather be doing, but he... can’t. It’s like his ass is glued to the floor or something._

_The Kaiju are gone. They’re fucking extinct._

_They stopped the apocalypse._

_They saved the world._

_It isn’t enough it isn’t enough it’ll never be enough._

_A wave of crushing terror floods over Newt, and he’s life gasping for air like a fish out of water – fuck, he hates clichés – grabbing on to wads of his hair._

_Shit. Motherfucker. Shit. Motherfucker._

_One syllable. Four syllables. One. For. One. Four._

_One four one four one four one –_

_Newt quickly moves, frantically ducking his head inside the toilet bowl and retching. He heaves, and snot pours from his nose, and his glasses are somehow missing, and he doesn’t know what to do. Can’t move won’t let him move gotta move gotta go._

_“Dr. Geiszler?”_

_Sandra._

_He no longer wants to smash her face in any way._

_Newt doesn’t respond because he can’t, but he doesn’t object to the door being kicked in, like, a billion minutes later._

_“Knew all that Kaiju drifting was bound to catch up to you,” someone – he thinks it’s Tendo but can’t tell without his glasses – says. “C’mon, mate. Med bay awaits. Gottlieb is already there.”_

_“Hermann?” Newt squeaks out._

_Tendo hoists Newt to his feet, but nothing is working. “Need me to get you a wheelchair?”_

_Newt sniffles, wiping his eyes and nose on his torn leather jacket. “No. I’m ‘lright. Let’s go.”_

_Truthfully, the one thing keeping him from passing out here is Hermann. He doesn’t know if the dude is okay, if he’s feeling anything like Newt is right now. He wonders if Hermann’s hip throbs or if he can barely see out of his left eye or if there’s this heavy, indescribable pressure on his chest. The dude is old and grey and fragile, after all._

_“He’s only a year older than you, dude.”_

_Newt blinks, limping heavily. “What? Did I say that out loud?”_

_“Yeah, I’m gonna have Sandra do that full work up on you,” Tendo says. “And, speaking of Sandra, I got you something, darling.”_

_Newt feels himself being tugged and pulled, but he doesn’t care._

_“Aw, Tend, you shouldn’t have,” Sandra coos. “Okay, Dr. Geiszler, strip to your skivvies and put that gown on. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”_

_Who says ‘jiffy’ anymore? It just makes Newt think of peanut butter._

_Whatever._

_He sits on the edge of a too sterile looking bed, wincing at the almost unbearable pain enveloping his right hip as he shucks off his boots and socks. His jeans cling to his bruised shins, and he has to fight his way out of them, kicking and flailing and looking like a complete dweeb instead of a craptastic rock star. His leather jacket and tie and white – well, it isn’t exactly white anymore – button up are easy enough to remove. Newt puts on this weird, stupid, flimsy gown thing and immediately lies down, curling in a ball the best he can and shielding his eyes._

_This has been such an epic whirlwind. He drifted with a Kaiju brain. Twice. He finally saw one up fucking close and personal, and he was almost eaten! He got to run around Hong Kong like a hero in his favorite movies, trying to solve the mysteries behind this world they live in. But, now, that world is gone, proverbially shattered, and it’s safe. It’s supposed to be safe._

_So why does Newt feel like the walls are closing in? Like he can’t breathe right?_

_Like the life is being sucked out of him?_

_Does Hermann feel like this?_

_Where even is Hermann?_

_Newt wants to get up, to explore and take stock of his surroundings and, most importantly, locate Hermann. He’s shivering relentlessly, and he wishes he had his nice warm, thick Godzilla comforter to wrap around his sore bones. Maybe he could even get one of those thermal thingies Hermann uses at night to trap in the heat. Mmm... Hermann and heat sound so good right now._

_He doesn’t know how long it takes, but Sandra finally returns with a tray of needles and tubes, and Newt is so queasy again. He blinks up at her, trying to focus with his one working eye because, seriously, he can barely see anything out of his left. He places his hand over it since it’s useless anyway and somehow pulls himself into a sitting position._

_“We’re gonna start simple, alright?” Sandra says. “Full blood work up and an IV to get you rehydrated. Are you in any pain?”_

_Newt shakes his head, but, go fucking figure, that hurts too. “I’m okay.”_

_“I’m gonna give you a low dose of IV hydrocodone just in case.”_

_He nods, biting his lower lip as Sandra jabs him with a needle. His vision darkens as he watches the blood pour into a test tube. He swears he blacks out for – well, he isn’t sure for how long exactly – a while. When he finally opens his eyes and acts like a normal, functioning human being for a split second, he’s lying on his left side, an IV stuck in his right hand. There’s something wonderfully warm covering his right hip, and, shit, this almost feels peaceful._

_“Good morning, Dr. Geiszler.”_

_Newt blinks. He knows that voice anywhere._

_Wait. Why does it feel weird when he blinks?_

_Why can’t he see anything out of his left eye?_

_Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. He’s blind. He’s fucking blind._

_“Relax. It’s a patch, Newton. It is going to keep bacteria out of your eye while it heals from its hemorrhage.”_

_“Am I a pirate now?”_

_He hears Hermann sigh. He missed that sigh. “Sure, Newton. You are a pirate now.”_

_“Hey, are you wearing one?” he asks. “An eye patch? I mean, you drifted too.”_

_“Yes.”_

_Newt closes his eyes – eye – and smiles a tiny bit. “Cool. We’re pirate buddies.”_

_“Go back to sleep, Newton.”_

_“What happened? Why are you allowed out of bed? Why am I still here? And, dude, seriously, I’m craving a milkshake like a boss. Chocolate, y’know?”_

_“No, Newton, I do not know. However, to answer your ridiculous string of inquiries, you must let me speak. Understand?”_

_Newt frowns. “I may be blind right now, but I’m not a toddler.”_

_“That is up for debate,” Hermann retorts. “Anyhow, you passed out once arriving here at approximately 3:02 AM. Sandra assessed exhaustion, which, in all likelihood, is the case. You are still here because you lost consciousness for a prolonged period of time: 8 hours and 13 minutes to be exact. You are currently running a temperature of 38.5. As for me, I have not been formally released yet as we are awaiting on the return of my second MRI.”_

_“Second MRI? You alright, Herms?”_

_He imagines Hermann rolling his eyes. “Do not call me ‘Herms,’ Newton. And, yes, quite frankly I am better off that I personally expected. It is you everyone is worried about.”_

_“Pssh. I’m fine. Let me just sit up here, and I’ll be good to rock and roll...”_

_Newt trails off as he tries to push himself into a sitting position, but there’s a sharp twinge in his hip, and his once quieted head is roaring, thumping, exploding with deep ridges of pain. He whimpers, closing his ‘good’ eye. Fuck, it’s cold in here. He has goosebumps, like, everywhere. It isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. He wants to be released, sleep for 12 hours in his own bed, and go to the lab, where the last of the Kaiju wait to be dissected._

_He feels something warm washing over him and flinches._

_“It’s alright, Newton. I am just covering you with a blanket,” Hermann whispers._

_It isn’t like Hermann to whisper. Sure, Newt is definitely the louder of the two, but, come the fuck on, Hermann is just as annoying as Newt is. He’s too clean and pristine and judgy and has these awful clothes that make him look 87 – no, wait, 88 – instead of 36. They aren’t a quiet pair, especially when they’re in the lab together, which, of course, is all the time. Hermann argues with Newt over literally everything, and Newt proves him wrong. That’s just how it goes._

_The fact that Hermann is doing this – being unnaturally timid – is concerning to say the least._

_“Okay,” Newt says, breaking the silence. “What’s wrong? Am I dying? If I’m dying, please tell me it’s of something awesome. Ooh! Am I turning into a Kaiju? That’d be so fucking sweet!”_

_“That would not be ‘sweet,’ Dr. Geiszler!” Oh no. Last name. And shouting. “You very well could have died yesterday! Then what, pray tell?”_

_Newt shrugs. “I would’ve died a rock star.”_

_“You stupid stupid little man...” Hermann mutters. “I was worried about you. Prolonged lapses of unconsciousness, fever, headaches, seizures. These are not good things.”_

_“So you’re throwing a hissy fit because I almost died? Aww, Hermann... You care about me.”_

_There’s a hand resting on his elbow. It’s cold, but comforting and familiar. “Of course I care about you, Newton. Don’t be ridiculous. No more drifting, alright? That was far too dangerous for my liking, and, I do not know about you, but I am quite tired from the experience.”_

_Newt pouts, but he finds himself nodding anyway._

_The Kaiju are gone. His life’s work is meaningless. But it feels strange and weird and good to know that Hermann is actually on his side for once. He wonders if Hermann is still feeling the affects of the drift. He wonders if Hermann can read his thoughts. He wonders if his hip is so fucking sore because that’s what Hermann deals with everyday._

_Shit. Are they superheroes? Did the drift give them powers?_

_He hopes he can fly. He’s always wanted to fly._

_Newt’s eyes droop closed, and he pretends he doesn’t notice Hermann stroke his hair or mumble, “Sleep well, Newton.”_

~

He’s in this void in between Heaven and Hell space and the ocean time and floating. It’s pitch black save for a tiny candle burning in the distance it defies the laws of physics and makes Newt sick to his stomach but it maybe it doesn’t matter what matters is what the small light points to as he wanders aimlessly in the darkness. It’s Hermann angelic and glowing the pure embodiment of a god he smiles makes Newt feel as though his own body no longer belongs to him. Hermann grabs Newt’s hand ushering him through the void his hand is freezing it’s everything and nothing all at once. Hermann lights up the darkness Hermann is his light Hermann is...

Hermann is...

His eyes snap open Hermann his Hermann is nearby sometimes he used to bring Newt a cup of hot tea or tissues if his nightmares were bad this time Newt can’t exactly see Hermann but he knows he’s there he smells the chalk dust on him; Hermann always smells like that like chalk dust and chamomile and butterscotch hard candies.

Hermann keeps him grounded safe secure even in the face of whatever is wrong with him because Newt knows it’s fucking something he’s no stranger to nightmares.

“Be careful of your IV, Newton.”

He doesn’t want to talk like ever again his brain and his body are freaking out but what else is new tomato tomato after all whatever. His world is nothing but half pitch black half blurry completely out of focus his head is mushy stomach swims with bile. He wants his own bed not the one from when they were inside of him but the one Hermann would tuck him into sometimes he wants to be surrounded by his pillows and comforter and two separate nightlights and his ten gallon fish tank and stacks of novels and Hermann especially Hermann.

“Would you like me to keep reading to you?”

Hermann’s voice is so sweet melodic calming Newton nods frantically he doesn’t feel all that great.

“One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about human beings was their habit of continually stating and repeating the obvious, as in, ‘It’s a nice day, or you’re very tall, or oh dear, you seem to have fallen down a thirty foot well, are you alright?’ At first Ford had formed a theory to account for this strange behavior...” Hermann trails off.

Newt blinks with tears streaming down his cheeks hiccupping begging to hear Hermann’s voice again he can never lose that voice never ever ever.

“If human beings don’t keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths probably seize up,” Hermann continued Newt breathes out a little. “After a few months consideration and observation he abandoned this theory in favor of a new one. If they don’t keep on exercising their lips, he thought, their brains start working. After a while he abandoned this one as well as being obstructively cynical and decided he quite liked human beings after all, but he always remained desperately worried about the terrible number of things they didn’t know about.”

Newt’s human he doesn’t know a lot of things but as he listens to Hermann read softly gently delicately with emotion riding on every syllable Newt knows he loves Hermann he never wants to lose him again.

It isn’t enough forever it’s enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Feel free to follow me on Tumblr: @glennjaminhow.


End file.
